


Mirage

by lezzerlee



Series: AELDWS Round 6 [4]
Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Community: inceptiversary, Forging (Inception), M/M, aeldws
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-10
Updated: 2014-08-10
Packaged: 2018-02-12 13:31:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 490
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2111715
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lezzerlee/pseuds/lezzerlee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Eames doesn’t exist. Not the way most people do.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mirage

**Author's Note:**

> **Prompt:** roleplay  
>  **Word count:** between 400 to 500 words
> 
> Thanks so much to [riverlight](http://t.co/ILcCLkXwBo) for the beta!

Eames shivers into himself upon waking, fingers pressed white against the arms of the lounge. His arms feel too long and heavy, laid out like sandbags holding against the overflow of his body. The weight of his cock between his legs is pronounced. Beside him, Arthur sits up, hair still perfectly in place, though his shirt is rumpled around the collar and rolled up along the sleeves. Eames’ fingers twitch to run through Arthur’s hair, loosen the curls he never allows free in real life.

Arthur gathers the PASIV lines up and discards the needles. Cobb is staring, off in the corner. It’s only been a month since Mal’s death. His eyes are bruise-colored from lack of sleep. Eames shrugs on his jacket and leaves.

The next day Eames feels more himself. His center of gravity is still a little high, his shoulders a little wide, but the stubble on his face feels right when he runs his thumb over his top lip. He misses the press of Arthur’s lips against his own, wine-scented and smearing his lipstick.

They don’t talk about it.

Lying is something Eames does—even to himself. It’s his number one skill, and he develops it in all forms: a forged person, a fake document, a flirtatious smile as he picks your pocket. It’s been a long time since anyone knew anything about him that he didn’t craft with detail, and then contradict diligently months later. There are rumors, and there are observations, and Eames influences every single one. Arthur is the only one who knows exactly what he is, exactly what he’d done when his name wasn’t a stolen one.

Sometimes Eames skin itches because it’s not his own. Sometimes it itches because it is.

It was an offhand comment made eight years ago, drunk on piss-poor tequila, sweaty and naked in the humid Sao Paulo air. They barely knew each other then, had just finished a long and stressful job and fucked in some sort of stilted celebration. Arthur had leaned over the edge of the bed, digging through his crumpled pants pockets for his pack of Newports. “What would it be like if you had sex as a different person every night?” he’d said.

Eames forged a redhead the next night: male with freckles and lanky limbs. Arthur had to lean up to kiss him. After that he forged a mousy blonde with big tits. They went through a month’s supply of Somnacin in just under two weeks. Their room service bill had been atrocious.

Arthur likes trim waists and curved hips, breasts just big enough for his hand. He likes women who are short, who get drunk on a glass of champagne. Eames likes Arthur’s dry humor, his endless cynicism, his intelligence and his attention to detail. Eames likes Arthur’s dimpled and cigarette-tinged smile.

Eames doesn’t think about the way Arthur looks at him in the real world. The way he doesn’t.


End file.
